friday 8 august 2008…. greenfield (8-8-8… the chinese think this is a lucky day. for some, I guess)

αποθανησκειν θελω…. So the sibyl supposedly once said, when she had been trapped. I wonder if the sibyl had Asperger’s. I myself hate to be trapped, either physically or psychologically.

Enormous disgust for the three females who were the three principal players in the ravaging of my life. Total animosity for Matthew and his colleagues, if in fact he has told truth about himself and these colleagues “down from Burlington,” as I, so far, believe. Antipathy for those I am, according to him, being protected from.

Picture yourself in my situation. But you probably can’t. Probably don’t have enough empathy to do that. In my situation, you would see three women, one of whom was supposed to help you, who took nasty, salivating delight in destroying you. You would see the pack of the mafia-chick’s associates, knowing already, as most amerikans do know, what kind of filth organized crime are. You would see only metaphorically the grandfather you never met, whom you thought was an immigrant painter of houses, now turned into an organized crime guy himself, says Matthew. And you would see Matthew, who brought this crime-news to your life, doing his undercover performing, and his pals doing it too, and quite possibly using you, without your consent, as bait for people that the undercovers are drooling for. And what else could you see, if you could picture yourself in my situation, but human evil, human consciencelessness, human ugly muck? Unless you live in fairyland, or in total denial (and maybe fairyland is where you are when you live in total denial), how could you be in my situation and see the human race as anything but black?

Maybe you could, but it is beyond my make-up. I’ve been a misanthrope with Asperger’s all my life as it is, and every stinking thing that is done to me and mine by any human, or in this case by a great many of them, only makes me fear and detest my own species with more heat.

Matthew, from where I sit, you and your pals are as dirty as the ones you fish for.

I’ve said before that while I have enough rage for homicide, I don’t have whatever else it takes to pull it off. Apparently my grandfather had it, but I don’t. Nor do I, thus far, have what it takes for a fast and decisive suicide. That I hope will change, as my own intellect tells me that it is an idiocy for me to continue to live in such enormous grief and rage. My own personal reasoning tells me that if living is only darkness and struggle and hurt, then it is a waste of time and breath. I hope I’ll become able to end it.

Today is P.N.’s birthday. I often wished, when I had my life and made wishes, that my birthday were on the other solstice, the winter, because while I was living my own life I really loved the winter solstice. And my actual birthday is only a few weeks off. Anyway, wishes, like everything else, are all in the past, except the one wish that remains.

I was going to discuss today how my female dog, Brainse, may well have come to belong to the sociopathic, amoral, psychotic, deep-pocketed landlady who illegally threw us out. That would be due to the tender mercies of Shirley Temple at the DMH, who seems to have decided that she didn’t want me having my animals, and looked around for people to give them to. I had mentioned to her several times that the landlady had always coveted Brainse, and she got really, really interested in that. It was one of the few times she seemed like she had a pulse.

And also I was going to talk about the experiments and tests conducted on me in public places, without my consent, and how truly twisted these DMH people (and CSS, and others) turn out to be, and how not a single neurotypical participating in these juvenile, unkind, and non-consentual activities ever stops to think how this psychologically aggressive and intrusive behavior makes me feel. How worthless, unregarded, disrespected, how like a piece of dogshit that anyone at all who takes a notion can kick around or step on. I always thought psychobabble boneheads had to have consent to do testing and experimentation, and that it was done in private, not on streets and in churches and restaurants. But, like my landlady and the psycho-tenant and the cops and the sheriff’s department, the doctors and social workers and whatever do not have to abide by the law when they are dealing with a piece of garbage like me, and they don’t have to behave morally, either. They add daily, hourly to my resolve.

Update 14 July 2009: Unless and until I’m told otherwise, I still believe that the landlady who illegally threw us out ended up with my dogs and euthanized the male because she didn’t want to deal with his epilepsy. It was the female she’d always taken a shine to, anyway. I still believe this came about because of an agreement made behind my back between the landlady and Shirley Temple at the DMH. Until someone tells me otherwise. And have I ever been allowed to visit my dog? Of course not.

And I still believe that Asperger’s testing was done on me in public last year. Matthew took me to a couple of the tests. He answered a question for me about another one, one I didn’t understand the purpose of. And when they were over, he told me I have Asperger’s.

The anger is in this orginal post too. It will stay. All the emotions that were pulling me away from the grieving I should have been doing — hope, belief, maybe some denial, confusion, anxiety and anger — had to get written into these blogs every day so I could carry on at all, and they propelled me to keep moving, keep trying during all the months I was waiting for Matthew and his bunch to tell me where they wanted me to live.

Matthew knew I expected them to tell me where they wanted me, because I told him this. If it wasn’t going to go that way in my case, he should have told me.

My teeth are clenched… my face is wrenched up in a grimace… I’m snarling…

RiverCulture is a Turners Falls concept and an idiocy and a promotional scheme that makes my blood boil. I first found out about it in 2008, when I was living outdoors in this burg, but I don’t know exactly how long it’s been in existence or exactly who hatched it. I saw it on the tube one day when I was hanging out in the laundromat, watching the local access cable station. On comes this show, starring as host a homely woman who is a recent incomer to Turners. Pseudo-yuppie, pseudo-progressive, pseudo-“community” rah-rah girl. Everything about this female is pseudo, with the exception of her vacuousness. That’s plenty real.

She and her guest were discussing murals painted in the town over the last several years, and then they start blabbering about how it’s all part of RiverCulture, and they uttered this word as if they were saying the rapture, or maybe the holy grail. The word had an enormous gravitas, as if it were sacred.

So it turns out that it is this campaign to emphasize to potential tourists that TF has a river running through it (and a big one, at that: the Connecticut), and that that is special, and that that river, and its attendant culture, is a mighty big reason for all you out there to come to Turners and spend your bucks here.

And what is the yuppy (and pseudo-yuppy) idea of river culture? Fishing, perhaps. Strolling along beside the water on this tar-scar they laid down in 2005 or so, or rollerskating, or bicycling, along this scar of tar. Spending money is the main thing, and spending it right here in Turners. After you’ve traversed a piece of the scar, maybe gone to the fish ladder, you are hungry and thirsty and will spend in local eateries. Shop in local stores. Perhaps you’ll take photos, show them to all the folks back home, and become a living ad for RiverCulture.

I lived beside the canal for five and a half years, and beside the river for four and a half. I walked the canal all those years with my cats, and the river with my dogs, at all hours of day and night in all seasons, and in the days when there were NO tar-scars ruining the natural state. I’m not a yuppy, but I have more education than any yuppy whose butt is now firmly planted in this town. I also have a much greater sense, apparently, of what it is to experience the culture of a natural space.

Here’s my take on what the culture of the river-space is: Watching the sun go down or the full moon come up over the water; meeting a young moose running towards you at five in the morning; meeting a beaver on your path at ten at night, watching deer move ahead of you beside the water, keeping a safe distance from your dogs; watching the leonid meteor showers (hundreds of them) in the dark at five a.m. in 2001 (my dogs and I were the only ones out there — no one else in downtown Turners got up early to watch the show of natural fireworks over the river); listening to snowflakes sish as they hit the water’s surface; and bard owls and bats and bald eagles, cormorants catching fish, geese, gulls, otters hissing at you as they swim past you in the dark, their heads and necks above the water. All of these things that you only see and hear if you are out there to catch them when they happen, at odd hours and in all seasons, and if you go peacefully, without arrogance or aggression. You catch damned few pieces of the flux and rhythms of the water and the wildlife, not to mention the many wild and cultivated flowering plants, if all you do is skate or bike or walk along a scar-tar once a day, and only in good weather.

I know what real river culture is, and my dogs and cats knew it, too. And the animals I have always fed beside the waters of this town (squirrels, land birds, water birds) know it too. Yuppies know squat about being real, about moving with nature’s rhythms, about getting dirty or wet or cold in order to hear those snowflakes hit or listen to the ice-floes creak. Yuppes know only superficialities, and the joys of spending, and the ease of keeping nice and clean and warm and dry by “drinking in” river culture from the seat of a bicycle for ten or fifteen minutes on a nice day.

Come all you young rebels and list while I sing. The love of one’s country is a terrible thing. It banishes fear with the speed of a flame, and it makes us all part of the patriot game. ……………………… And now I am dying my body all holes. I think of those traitors who bargained and sold. I’m sorry my rifle has not done the same to the traitors who sold out the patriot game. ~~ anonymousFor my “protectors,” and for all the hordes of traitors who sold it all out over millenia.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~website~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back in Turners Flails again. According to recent fairy tales (or are they?), four of my cats and one of my birds are living quite close to where I now sit. But has anyone ever said, Anne, you can go and visit them. Just be polite and call ahead. No, no one ever has. Because taunting and teasing are so much more fun than kindness and mercy. Well, speaking of taunting and teasing, the teasing, demented flake with the white van in which I and my family spent our last hours together ever, was just plaguing me in the store. She was in the row next to mine, her eyes possessed by this perfectly insane glaze, staring at what? Her eyes weren’t pointed towards me, and they weren’t pointed towards the clothes. A few inches above the clothes, I’d say. and the insane, glazed look was straight out of a bette davis movie.

There are people in this burg who often don’t seem very pleased to see me come here: I sell drugs; I beat people up; I steal; whatever. No, I don’t do any of those things, and never did. But I am weird, odd, eccentric, angry, blunt, not much of a housekeeper, always had “too many” animals, and I’m an autistic atheist. All of these non-mainstream, non-conformist idiosyncracies are tantamount to evil in this town. I am evil in the flesh, come back to haunt their streets. This town of such great rectitude that in my 22 years here, for part of which iIwas raising a child, I saw more murders, rapes, drunkeness, drugs, theft, psychological bullying, and all kinds of other ugliness, than I ever saw in the neighborhood I lived in in boston. But I am the evil to be shunned. I am one of the worst things that’s happened to turners falls in the last 23 years.

Update 9 July 2009: Those are the feelings I got from a lot of people in Turners back at the time I wrote this, but not from every person. And I was angry, and stayed angry for a long time. Everything had piled up: the 17 months of illegal harassment from the mafia-chick (which no one would do anything about); the technically illegal, retaliatory eviction; the lack of help and the laziness of the DMH and the CSS; the fact that because of a psychotic with connections and a dead grandfather with connections, I was now in this unbelievable protection situation; the “fact” that M. loved me, but sat back and did nothing to help me as a person, just did his shtyk and his job; the fact that I had lost my home and my way of life and everyone I love. It had all piled up, and I was furious all the time, for months. I’ve heard many times that depression is repressed emotion. So if I was angry for months, very angry, I am now repressing a lot of it. And for a long time I was repressing a lot of my grief. I guess I still am, because I’m in a living situation where crying is not allowed, and I very much need to cry.

The current variety being levelled at me remains baffling, namely: why didn’t the DMH care enough about saving my life to find (in 11 months) a home for me and maybe half of my animals? Or why couldn’t they at least pretend to care enough to do that, as it’s what they get paid to pretend. I haven’t figured out the reason for that particular cruelty, though several people have suggested to me that because I made complaints to the governor’s office and to health and human services, the DMH decided to really let me have it and allow my life to be destroyed. I can see them reacting that way on an emotional level, disliking me that much and wanting to finish me off. But they work for a state agency. Would they behave that way with the agency’s reputation? And let me say, I have never yet in my 15 or so months with DMH (though I have dumped them as of June 10) heard anyone say anything to suggest that the DMH has a good reputation (a great shame I didn’t know that before I signed on with them). But still, even if the agency’s reputation here in western Mass sucks, would the employees vent their fury on me, a disliked client, by letting me be ruined and making their reputation even worse? The answer to that seems to be Yes, despite the fact that these people are company people, sheep, teammates, and I don’t understand why they didn’t try to make the company look good, even if they despised me. This is the part of that cruelty that I find so baffling.

Update 2 July 2009: Another cruelty, which I was deliberately often vague about last year, was all the following and watching me certain men were doing, men who were pretending, as I’ve said, to be nuts or drunk, and they clearly were not. This had been since my first homeless day in Greenfield, which was March 13, 2008. For four more days after writing this post, I continued to make myself believe these men were working for the DMH. But on June 23, another explanation would finally take root, that something criminal was going on, and that was admitted to me by Matthew Lacoy.

One of these days I’m going to get back to the job of copying the Soulcast Sehnen posts into this blog. I guess I’m burned out on the copying process and need a break.

But on this fine Friday (in terms of weather) I’ve come to tell you that it’s 10:20 in the morning, and Matthew and I are both here in the Greenfield library. He followed me in. He was waiting for me on the sidewalk when I arrived. He spoke, but I gave no answer. Love and murder. Isn’t it romantic. Out of those particular lips in that particular sun-reddened face, first came the words two years ago that there were people who wanted to kill me. Those lips and that face are not far from me at this moment, and it was two years ago exactly, to the date.

And I’m having serious anxiety, as I always do now when I see Matthew, but not for the reason you might think. Not because Matthew = protection = bad people may be near me and I’m afraid. No, I’m not afraid of the people Matthew told me about two years ago. They can have me. I don’t care much. It’s Matthew himself I fear — the way I once felt for him, the fascism involved in what he does for a living, the fact that Matthew loves nothing more in this life than feeding his ego, and that I was never able to compete with a thing like that.

He’s babysitting me here in the library today, sitting in a chair pretending to read a newspaper, and I emphasize the word pretending. My hero, my “protector,” watching over me for more than two years. He just left.

If you’re one of those who’ve decided I’m delusional, you’re too obtuse for me to address yet again, and you’re extremely naive about where and how organized crime operates these days (as naive as I was myself before 2008). Or if you’re one of those who thinks that Matthew simply has played a big hoax on me, well that’s how you formulate a reason for him telling me the things he did. But since I believed him then and have never been given any cogent reason to cease believing him, I know that today is a bad day. When Matthew waits for me on the sidewalk and follows me inside, I know it’s a bad day.

And I know other things too. That he loves me, for instance, in the only way he’s capable of loving: ego first. And part of his machismo, his ego-gratification, is that he will take a bullet if necessary in the performance of his job. He’s been shot once before, and I have seen the skin graft.

There was a day in June 2008 that lives in my memory as if branded there with red-hot iron. A day that was another very bad one, but it was before I knew anything about being protected from potential killers. Matthew behaved so strangely that day, so urgently, so undercover, that later, after he’d told me what was going on in my life, I realized that on that June day there had been someone very, very close to me, ready to do whatever, and Matthew was racing for all he’s worth to get between us, racing and sweating and determined to get between us, to take whatever was meant for me, if this person went through with it. They did not. The thugs know who many of the undercover goons are, what they are, and this presence often deters them, it seems. They know Matthew very well.

Every time I think about that day, the only day, the only moment that I ever saw even a hint of fear in Matthew’s eyes, I know that if he can in any way manage it, he will take on himself any physical violence anyone tries to inflict on me, or on any innocent person. That brings tears. Yes, it’s dedication to his job. It’s also love for me, at least in part. Once when I had a bad hematoma on my leg he kept asking me if someone had hit me, even though I’d already told him that I’d fallen. He kept asking me if I was sure, if I would tell him if anyone hurt me. About anyone hurting me physically he is almost pathologically concerned.

But emotional hurt? He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get the emotional hurt of what the DMH did, or that of losing the animals, or that perpetrated by himself and his superiors by not protecting me in the normal, legal way. He just doesn’t get it. In his world of machismo and ego-driven action, the only threats to the woman he loves are physical ones. And he, the protector, will battle to the death if necessary to prevent those.

And I? I would have preferred a hundred thousand times over that he had got the hell out of that fascist line of work, come and been just a person with me, and if the thugs got us, then they got us. Anything that meaningfully could be called my life was stolen in 2008, so I’m in a very real way the walking dead anyway.

The third July of Matthew. Love and murder every July. Does it ever stop; stop while I’m still breathing, I mean.

Wednesday 2 July 2003 a very black day for me and the animals Wednesday 4 July 2007 the last 4th of my own life Wednesday 2 July 2008 Matthew tells me people want to harm me

Another loaded day, full of echoes and shadows of dark things on summer days. Triggers of trauma. Memory that picks at the scabs of those days, making them sore and red, infected with the loss, the meanness, the uncalled-for casual cruelty of humans.

It happens from time to time, a loaded day. So today is another. I wish all that pain in my scabs today returned to you a thousandfold: returned to the alchy landlord, Nookie, and his chick; returned to the insane landlady and the insane mafia-chick (and all her cohorts); returned to Matthew Lacoy; returned to Shirley Temple at the DMH. I owe you all a debt of suffering. If I could pay that debt with my thoughts alone, I’d be doing so this moment.

Yeah, yeah. Another brand-new post. This one’s for two specific people, which the rest of you are free to ignore. You won’t understand the references anyway. I apologize that I sometimes have to make these specifically-directed posts, but there are certain earthling carbon-and-water-based units with whom I can only communicate through blog posts — I have no other form of access to them.

So Judith: I see that you and Marcus now have this clandestine little business arrangement. Does M. know about it? I saw M. the other day, and maybe the next time I see him, we’ll have to have a little chat. You know, even when I can’t get a good look at his back, I know there are whip marks on it. I’ll have to check out Marcus’ back too, the next time I see him, and I see him fairly frequently. Now I know that frequently is a big word. Do you know what it means? Then I’ll tell you: it means almost the same as ‘often.’ And I’m sure you can handle that one. Anyway, I know I’ll find those nasty whip lashings on his back too.

Do you still have that wretched cat you never took care of? Just for your information, the word moulin is not pronounced moo-lawn. If you can do nothing else for the poor beast, you could at least pronounce her name right. I understand that it’s a challenge, that your general ignorance and your substance abuse make it difficult for you to pronounce even the simplest English words, much less French ones. But you might exert yourself a bit for the sake of the cat.

And to the rest of you — after all, as soon as you ask a person to ignore something, that it’s not intended for them — they suddenly want to pay attention to it all the more. Well, knock yourselves out, but I assure you that only Judith and Marcus and M. will know what I’m eluding to.

Another interruption. Another new Sehnen post while I’m still in the process of copying the old ones here.

A conversation recently with someone, in which we were discussing some things that had been said to me in March by a guy named Rick W. One of those things Rick W. had said about himself was this: “I don’t know anyone who thinks Rick W.’s an asshole.” (his emphasis). Well, the third party that I was talking to said that Rick W. was clearly very messed up and that I should write a blog post containing this unequivocal statement:

Rick W. is indeed an asshole

So there it is. Blog post with direct statement. I myself would have called Rick W. extremely immature for a man of 60, lacking in integrity, a dweller in a dreamworld, somewhat underhanded… But asshole is Rick W.’s own word, so that’s what I’ve used.

Living in Greenfield again, very briefly, since yesterday afternoon. Power went out 11:17 Wed night. Third floor tiny space with only one window, no power to run fans. Fridge defrosting and food spoiling. Only have a microwave to cook with, and it won’t work. Can’t charge the cell phone. Grocery store closed down for lack of power, and no money to eat in restaurants, which were closed anyway for lack of power. Hot, hungry, asthma breathing, no radio to listen to, etc. And it was so great of the building manager to come around yesterday and see if the tenants were okay, if any tenants needed anything. Yeah, right. I’m sure all she gave a damn about was that she had a day off from work. And of course Matthew Lacoy, who loves me, was right there at my door with a nice meal he’d got me in Greenfield.

Yeah, right. But now that I’m in Greenfield he’s dogging my footsteps in his usual undercover, amoral, unloving, egomaniacal fashion. May the ocean’s dogs devour both him and all his colleagues.

Back to the power. Turners Falls is partially owned by guess who: Northeast Utilities. They own the riverbank because they have a hydroeleltric dam there. They own the canal banks and the canal because they have a hydroelectric plant there. There are patches of Turners that are filled with high-tension wires, and big ugly junction boxes pop up here and pop up there. And yet we can’t have electricity since 11:17 Wednesday night. Go figure.